Damnit

So there are these two small dents on my passenger side door. I know, already. I didn't get to take the car home until December 3rd, 2007, and here it is April 9th of 2008 and it's not perfect anymore. They're odd marks, taken individually it looks like A) someone tried to break in, or B) someone dinged it with their own door. But both of them together are just odd. But that's not all I'm pissed about about. Oh no, there's never just one thing.

I called Grandpa when I saw it, because like I really know what to do when stuff like this happens. I don't know whether it happened here or at school and he made some comment about at least letting the administrators know something happened, that way if things happen to other cars in the lot, they can try to piece together who it might be. "Otherwise," he said, "You're just going to keep being a victim."

WHAT.

I hate that word, absolutely HATE it, I abhor it. I am not a fucking victim and I never will be. Saying I'm a victim is giving someone else control and I am not ever going to do that, period. I know he didn't intend it the way I see it and I didn't yell at him, don't worry; okay I got a little upset but I didn't yell or swear or anything like I'm doing now. He changed his wording then to my car being the victim. But that word just pisses me off. I'm not a victim, and I never will be.

P.S. My Tomato Baby turned four yesterday, he's getting so big! Here's a picture of us from Christmas, 2007